


We'll Feel Sublime

by cedarcliffe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Bloodplay, Established Relationship, Incest, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hold still, bitch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Feel Sublime

_Am I really all the things that are outside of me?_

 _Would I complete myself without the things I like around?_

\-- Animal Collective, Taste

 

 

The rasp of metal over stubble was loud in the near-silence of the motel room. It was a coarse, grating sound, the razor-thin edge of the machete pressed to the side of Sam's neck and dragged down the side in a slow, careful stroke. Uneven breaths measured the seconds like a broken metronome. Dragging in, stuttering out. More reliable was the beat of Sam's heart, a steady throb beneath Dean's palm, visible in the line on his throat. Tantalizing, almost teasing. A beckoning finger.

Dean leaned in, pushing the air from Sam's lungs in a warm puff. His tongue slid out to trace a gleaming path over his brother's jaw, and Sam made a low, needy sound, straining against the ropes that knotted his wrists together against the headboard. His skin was already chafed, raw.

"Hush, Sammy," Dean rasped, burying his teeth in Sam's shoulder. Instantly he was rewarded with a sharp buck of hips, aborted by a flash of reflected light on the boundary of his peripheral. Sam's gaze was muzzy, pupils blown wide, following every movement as Dean settled his weight on his thighs and the tip of the blade over his lips.

There was a flash of pink. Sam's tongue drew along the hair-fine edge, a line of red splitting it down the center and then spreading through it, thinning spiderwebs of color. Dean darted forward to lap and taste.

Sam in his mouth, staining his teeth. Iron to his whiskey. Salt to his burn.

Dean rolled his hips down, straining against the confines of his jeans, zipper catching on denim. Sam hissed, writhed, and Dean reared back to smack the flat of the blade down on his chest, smirking when he flinched and bared his teeth.

"Hold still, bitch."

Sam's eyes were fire-bright, searing, even through the haze of want and need. But he did as he was told. He stopped fighting, stopped struggling to reach out and grab hold of his brother, wrap him in his arms and crush him close, closer, through muscle and curving white bone and into his blood. Their blood. Shared at birth and death and so many times after and in between.

The rope restrained him, but it was Dean who held him. Dean's voice, Dean's touch.

Dean reached back behind Sam's head to bury his fingers in the thick length of his hair, knotting them in the damp warmth and then pulling, pulling until Sam's back arched and his throat convulsed with every gasp and dry swallow. His adam's apple bobbed. Dean secured his lips over it, sucking and biting and pulling until the skin was dark and bruised with abuse, Sam's moans thrumming through the grip of his teeth. When he pulled away, disentangling his hand, Sam's deep, gulping breaths came in harsh and ragged.

Dean scooted back, machete caught in a loose, lazy grip, pressed a kiss to Sam's sternum. Sliced long and deep between his ribs.

When Sam let loose a strangled, hitching whine, his stomach taut and trembling, Dean ignored it. He was busy, anyway. Busy dipping his fingers into the gash and watching Sam's face contort with each piercing, probing touch. The flesh opened for him like a thin, hungry mouth, sucking and wet.

Sam caught at his bottom lip, harder and harder until a tiny rose blossomed, slipped free. His eyes slitted half-shut, and he shivered with a combination of pain and need.

Dean dropped the knife onto the bed to fumble one-handed at the button of Sam's pants, the other still buried in his brother's side and squirming deeper. There was the snick of the zipper, and then he was slithering down to tug, the slap of his hand leaving a candy-apple-red residue on Sam's side as he lifted his hips, wriggled free. No boxers beneath, and Dean chuckled before wrapping a blood-slick hand around Sam's dick and giving one rough, sliding jerk. Sam jolted, gasping and grating his teeth, choking on all the sounds he wanted to make.

Abruptly, Dean released him, and Sam's eyes shot wide open in unspoken protest before Dean's fingers were sinking back into the wound in his side.

"Shhh-sh-sh," Dean breathed over his soft keening. "Don't worry. I've got you."

Sam craned his neck and stretched forward, panting, and Dean leaned in to meet him, to lick away the trail on his his chin and usher it gently back into his mouth, onto his tongue. Their lips pressed together, Dean's dry and chapped, Sam's soft and supple and shining with spit, rouged with blood. Dean's fingers wandered over the bedspread until they met chill metal, dropping to grasp at the handle.

This time, when he cut along the angle of Sam's hip, he swallowed the muffled whimper before it could escape into the warm, stale air.

"Good, Sam," he crooned, pattering a trail of delicate kisses from beneath his ear to the dip of his collarbone. "So good. You're so good."

Light whuff of the machete falling again. Light whuff of Sam's breath leaving him when Dean dug into him.

Dean rocked against him, his jeans almost painfully coarse and a dark, misshapen patch soaking into the inside of his thigh, and it was the best Sam could do not to beg. He bit down on his pleas, on Dean, oh god  _Dean_ , Dean let me, please let me, let me hold you, Dean, let me kiss you, let me have you, let me fuck you, let me, let me,  _let me_ , please please  _please_.

He knew better than to say those sorts of things to this Dean, this brotherloverkillerfucker who crawled out of the pit more beautiful than when he fell into it, all his scars wiped away and his eyes greener, his teeth whiter, his hands and lips and knives surer than they'd ever been before. Dean surer than he'd ever been before. No hesitation, now, in the play of his touch on Sam's skin and beneath it. No uncertain pause in the grip that worked over his cock, the thumb that played over and under the head, the fingers that wrapped around the length. Expert twitches of his wrist made Sam's entirety stiffen, heat coiling in his belly, lancing up his spine. The shifting of his body was balanced and steady as he eased off of his body, off the bed, and deftly undid his pants. He watched Sam unwaveringly. Watched his chest heave with every sharp intake of breath. Watched him struggle with the impulse to move, speak, fight the knots that bound him. When he crawled back atop his brother it was was unhurried grace, composure that was nearly infuriating in its completeness. None of the not-quite-shyness, not-quite-shame that had always hung off of him like a sheen of sweat when they did this before. Before Hell. Before Stanford.

Before the idea of Normal ate its way into Sam's brain like some strange and terrible maggot, soft and fat and white and hungry for a life he and Dean could never have. A picture in which Dean had no place to stand.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, "Dean, I'm--I--ah,  _fuck_ ," he snarled, agony ripping through him in shuddering waves. Dean was digging in between his ribs, nails tearing, gash splitting wider. Hot wetness poured down his side with every movement, every thudding pulse of his heart, staining the comforter beneath their bare bodies.

"Shut up, Sam." A muscle leaped from his cheek to his temple. "Shut up."

Sam had only a moment to register the absence of contact -- though not the absence of pain, never the absence of pain -- before Dean was shouldering his legs apart.

" _Dean_ \--"

Cold hardness on his inner thigh froze him.

"Shut the  _fuck_  up, Sam."

Dean didn't wait for him to nod his understanding or assent before ducking down, machete unmoving, to feel around with blood-sticky fingers. It took less than a second for him to find what he was looking for, and when he did, his response was immediate and intrusive, one finger sinking in deep. Sam couldn't help the sharp, sucking hiss. Couldn't contain the subsequent groan when Dean twisted his hand and slid a second digit inside with no more warning than a glance. He didn't notice the blade dropping back to the bed, but he couldn't miss Dean's mouth latching onto his hip, tonging open the wound while he fingered open Sam, moving in, out, in again, curving to hit a place inside that made his limbs seize and his throat fill with unintentional sound.

 _Jesus_ , how long since he'd done this? He ached and stung -- Dean was doing too much, too fast, too dry -- but with teeth kneading the split borders of his flesh, it was almost pleasant. There were worse things than a rushed prep job.

That didn't stop him from letting loose a low, guttural cry when Dean withdrew his fingers only to shove in a third. He pulled away from Sam's side to spit a combination of blood and saliva into his hand and palmed his own dick, slicking it with the frothy pink mixture as he fucked him onto his hand in a steady, rough rhythm. Too soon, he was freeing his fingers to move up, to hang over his brother like an ominous black cloud of flesh and pleasure and need and pain. His splayed fingers pressed down into the mattress on either side, dipping it with his weight until Sam felt like he was sinking into that blood-soaked softness.

 _Not ready, oh fuck, I'm not ready._

He wouldn't say it out loud. Not to this Dean. This fresh-out-of-Hell Dean. This cut-you-into-pieces-and-then-fuck-you-whole-again Dean.

He nosed beneath Sam's jaw to place a kiss there, startlingly gentle, before he snaked his hands beneath his legs and pulled them up around his waist.

Slow, invasive burn as Dean rolled his hips down and into Sam, and it was too much, oh _god_ , too much too fast  _stop stop stop don't--_

But Dean didn't stop. Wasn't going to stop. And really, truly, honestly...Sam would kill him if he did.

His arms still trembled violently, headboard shuddering against the wall as he tugged and resisted the urge to tug, as he held himself as still as he could, which wasn't still at all. Dean slotted in deep, fucking deep, till Sam could feel the pressure of his hips. He needed a minute -- an hour -- to adjust to this feeling, this too-fullness, hot and painful and god, oh  _god_ , but he wasn't going to get a second. Dean was already pulling out in a small, slow movement just to shove in again, and  _fuck_ , fuck,  _Dean_ \--

Singing, splitting sound of metal on rope, and his hands were free. Sam slid down the bed as Dean tugged him ( _fuck_ ) closer, immobilized by his own surprise and the sudden, unexpected freedom. Then Dean thrust into him, hit that jesusfuckohgodDean place that shocked a whine from him instantly, and he was scrabbling at Dean's arms, gripping tight to his shoulders, wrapping his legs around the small of his back and snagging at the back of his neck, heaving upwards to kiss him while Dean shoved him down to fuck him harder, faster, with dick and tongue and thumbs that skidded over and into the bloody expanse of Sam.

It was an assault of pleasurepain _Dean_ , and for some reason it was that moment, that exact moment, that it really hit him:

He's back.

He's  _back_.

He whimpered and jammed his tongue past Dean's teeth, lapping at the taste of him, the feel of him, the bite of him. They were wrapped too tight around each other to fuck the way they might've wanted to -- Sam clutching him close, one of Dean's arms beneath him and the other around the back of his neck, no space to move, barely space to breathe -- but they were more than close enough to fuck they needed to. Small, stuttering in-outs, tongues locked together, voices tangling, tang of blood in their noses. They rocked together like one eight-limbed entity, a knot of arms and legs and skin, lips breaking apart only so they could press their foreheads together and gasp for breath.

"Sammy," Dean growled, and Sam felt the vibration of it in his own chest, as though he were the one who had spoken.

"I'm--"

" _Fuck_."

"God,  _Dean_ \--"

"S-Sam--"

It was impossible to say which of them came first -- the sensation of Dean filling him with slick, pulsing wetness was so close on the heels of the feeling of his own orgasm overtaking him that he didn't know, and couldn't care. Their chests heaved, stuck together with blood and sweat and spit and come and fuck, it was disgusting.

Sam couldn't imagine anything better.

"Dean--"

Lips crushed the words before they could get out. Gentler than they'd been before, the press of tongue slower, more languid.  _Shut up_  and  _I forgive you_  at the same time.

 _Okay, Dean. Okay._

They didn't pull apart after that.


End file.
